


Through a Mirror, Darkly (Interlude)

by stillwaterseas (phoenixflight)



Series: Center Gambit [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interlude, Knives, Laurent POV, M/M, alternative POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas
Summary: Laurent's POV of Chapter 12 of Center Gambit





	Through a Mirror, Darkly (Interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooooo someone said "I would kill for a Laurent POV of that chapter" and I was like "... oh shit, me too." So I wrote it! Be the change you want to see, etc, etc.  
> Do beware of the knives in this chapter. Laurent's head is not a happy place.

Laurent’s head was splitting, his stomach still unsettled. The bright morning light hurt. He hadn’t been that drunk in years, drunk enough that whole pieces of the previous night were entirely missing. It made an unpleasant itch crawl under his skin, to know that the inside of his mind was not entirely his own, but it was a necessary sacrifice. Damn Akielons and their barbaric bonding rituals. 

He shouldered open the door to Paschal’s workshop and halted abruptly on the threshold. Paschal was bent over the cot where Govart lay, and at a glance Laurent could see that the man was dead. He let the door fall shut behind him. “Well?” 

“I’m sorry your highness.” Shaking his head, Paschal straightened. “The head wound. He hadn’t woken in a number of days and…” He shrugged. “Slipped away this morning.” 

Laurent bit down on oath, head throbbing. He rolled his good shoulder, forcing himself to breathe slowly. As Govart had convalesced in incoherence the odds of his recovering enough to be useful had shortened.  _ You knew that already, _ Laurent reminded himself.  _ You can play this without whatever he knew. _ Still, he was not in the mood for bad news. 

“Was that why you came, your highness?” Paschal asked, drawing a clean linen over Govart’s still, sallow face. 

Laurent began to shake his head, thought better of it when a stab of pain went through his temple. “I find myself indisposed this morning.” 

It was what he always used to say, and Pascal made the same noise of sympathy as always. Paschal never asked what was wrong, but the tincture he gave for a hangover was different than his cure for other illnesses. They hadn’t done this ritual in years but it came back as easily as dancing; Laurent sat at the table while Paschal mixed ingredients; Paschal deftly feeling his forehead as he passed behind Laurent’s chair; the sharp smell of mint and ginger. It was too weighted with memory to feel comforting but it was… familiar. 

When he put the cup down in front of Laurent he sipped it slowly, feeling his stomach roll and breathing deeply against the nausea. Paschal placed a bowl beside him, which Laurent pointedly ignored. He was  _ quite _ finished being sick for the time being. 

“You should drink some water, if you can,” Paschal said when he’d finished the cup. “It will help your headache.” 

Laurent sighed, and filled the cup again from the pitcher of water on the table. “I know.” He picked at the splinters at the edge of the table. “Govart never said anything useful, did he? Nothing coherent?” 

“Not that I ever heard. He was more lucid early on, but all I got out of him was profanity.” Paschal sat down opposite him at the table with a bundle of wrinkled seed pods and began shelling the small seeds. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. I know you wanted his help.” 

“I don’t know about  _ help _ .” Absently, Laurent reached out and picked one up, cracking the dry husk and thumbing the seeds into the empty bowl. “He knew something about my uncle. Must have done. He was an impulsive thug who rose from nowhere out of the army to be my uncle’s right hand man. I’m sure he had something over him.” He scowled down at the seed pods. “I hoped I could make him tell me what it was. I need every advantage I can get.” 

It took him a moment to realize Paschal had gone still, staring down at the seeds in his hands. Laurent blinked. “What is it?” 

“I.” Paschal’s voice creaked. “...I think I know what it was.” 

“ _ What _ ?” A sudden sense of vertigo made his stomach turn again. 

Chair scraping the flagstones, Paschal stood and went to a shelf. Laurent recognized the small, heavily locked box that the physician took down. It was where he kept small bottles and vials of potent and addictive drugs, and, Laurent had always suspected, poisons. Glass clinked as he pulled out a folded letter and stared down at it. His face was pale, expression shuttered. It was a look he’d sometimes had when he handed Laurent salve after a rough night. 

Laurent put down the husk of the seed pods, heart speeding up. “What’s that?” 

Silently, Paschal handed it to him. The parchment was old and brittle, worn at the edges, streaked with dirty smudges. It had been carried by many hands, over a long time. His hands were steady as he unfolded it. 

As he read, he felt nausea rising up again in his throat. The letter in his hands was proof, more solid than he could ever have hoped for, of his uncle’s treason. And yet, he couldn’t muster anything except sick horror.  _ Father _ , he thought.  _ Oh gods. Father. _ He had suspected, but childishly, foolishly, in the part of him that had never believed Uncle would truly kill him, he had not wanted to believe. His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. The paper crackled as his grip tightened. The feeling in his stomach was something terribly like betrayal.

“When did you get this?” Laurent said softly. He could feel himself trembling with contained rage. At Paschal, at Govart, at his uncle. 

Paschal swallowed visibly. “Shortly before we left Arles.” He hesitated. “Niciase gave it to me.” 

Laurent’s control snapped. “Two months?” he shouted, standing so suddenly his chair crashed backward. “Do you have any idea how important this is?” Paschal was staring at the floor, knuckles white as he gripped the box. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t read it? No? Oh, you don’t want to lie to my face, just hide in silence like always.” He leaned forward across the table. His stomach was churning. “You’ve had this for two months and you never came to me? I’m not a child anymore, Paschal, I am going to be your king,  _ if _ your cowardice doesn’t get me killed first.” Paschal flinched, and Laurent felt an acid surge of satisfaction in his stomach. “Since we left Arles, and you didn’t think in all that time?” 

“I. I’m sorry your highness,” Paschal murmured. “I thought… at the right time…” 

“And did you give any thought to what the  _ right _ time might be? No, of course not, the right time would have been the moment this came into your hand! But you kept it like you’ve kept every one of my uncle’s secrets, because you are too much of a  _ coward  _ to face your own cravenness.” He slammed his hands down on the table top, making the pitcher slosh water onto the wood and seeds hop out of the bowl. “You could have saved yourself the trouble,” he said, grimacing over at Govart’s body. “Dispose of him.”

He tucked the letter into his jacket, and almost walked into the Akielon outside the door. Damianos looked shocked, and Laurent wondered how much he had overheard. It didn’t matter. Everyone would know soon. 

Laurent stalked toward his rooms, took a sharp detour, burst out into the courtyard and bent over as his stomach heaved. Jord, who had been following at a discrete distance, rushed to his side. Laurent spat, swore, and straightened. “Find someone in the kitchen to mix a drink of honey, ginger and salt, and have it sent up to my rooms,” he said shortly. Inside his jacket, the letter burned against his ribs like a brand. 

One of his scouts was waiting for him in his room, a skinny peasant girl looking nervous, with a serving woman as a chaperone. She dropped him an awkward curtsey before she began her report. When she was finished, Laurent was glad there was nothing in his stomach any longer.  _ Tomorrow _ . 

He ordered Jord to gather the Akielons, dismissed the scout and the servant who brought him the hot water with honey and ginger. He had a few moments alone, before the others came. Carefully, he hid the letter in the pages of a heavy book on falconry, and replaced the book at the bottom of a stack on the desk. He washed the sour taste of bile out of his mouth and forced himself to drink slowly. It wasn’t as good as Paschal’s mixture, but if he could keep it down it would be better than nothing. He concentrated on breathing deeply, and led his thoughts in carefully controlled circuits, like a horse on a breaking-lead. Numbers of soldiers, tactics, weapons; the council members - Herode, Audin, Mathe, Jeurre, Guion of course - and their allegiances; his allies back in Arles; the letter; his father, dead on the ground with a Veretian arrow in his throat…

Laurent clenched his fist, fingernails digging sharply into his palm, and forced his thoughts elsewhere. 

The others arrived, Damianos last of all, and they held a brief war council. It was nothing very complicated. He watched the doubt in Nikandros’ eyes, the grudging respect in Makedon’s, the complete, calm confidence in Damianos’. Laurent deflected questions and thought again that Nikandros was wasted as the Kyros of Delfeur. Rueven was stubborn and proud, but no fool and that was enough for now. He would wait to see how the play shook out before deciding his allegiance. Laurent merely had to ensure that the game ended in his favor. Merely. A sharp steady spike of pain pulsed behind his eyes. Laurent drank more water. 

He led Damianos and Lazar down to the dungeons to retrieve Guion - it was a gamble but not much of one. Between Makedon’s soldiers and Rueven’s ambivalence, Guion shouldn’t be able to turn any actual force to Uncle’s hand. Guion was a rat who would cave at the first sign of danger, but that could be useful in its own right, especially with his family nearby for leverage. 

Laurent’s mood was somewhat improved by Guion’s obvious terror. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that there was pleasure to be found in hurting people. It ran in the family. And some people deserved it. Aimeric’s father was one of them. 

Back in his rooms, he dismissed the serving girls and leaned against the desk, rolling his shoulders carefully. The one faint blessing to be found in his splitting headache was that he had hardly thought about his injured shoulder all morning. 

“Are you feeling better?” the Akielon asked behind him. He had been acting odd all day - skittish, nervous. Laurent frowned. They weren’t battle-jitters - Damianos wasn’t the type, and he’d been strange since they woke up that morning, before the scout arrived. Something last night, then? 

“Somewhat,” he said, aiming for lightness, while internally cursing General Makedon and his griva for leaving blank spots in his memory. “My head is still reminding me why I hate alcohol.”

“You should drink more water.” 

Laurent rolled his eyes, although it sent a stab of pain through his skull. “ _ Thank _ you, Paschal has already told me that today.” 

There was a scuffle of footsteps, and when Laurent looked over, Damianos was pouring him a cup of water. Laurent frowned as he accepted it, wondering what could have caused this strange combination of solicitousness and nerves. Damianos was acting like a servant who had broken something. 

“I’m sorry Govart died. He had something you wanted?” 

Laurent took a sip of water and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “It doesn’t matter now. I have what I need.” He didn’t glance over at the hidden letter. 

“You’re ready to face your uncle?” Damianos asked. 

Laurent took a deep breath, forcing himself not to tense visibly. “Are you ready to face your brother?” he returned. 

Damianos frowned. “I. Yes.” He hesitated and looked down at his hands. “Of course I’m ready.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.” Laurent set down the empty cup with a clink on the desk, and said sharply, “Tell me what happened last night.” 

“What?” The Akielon looked up. Startled? Guilty? Laurent crossed his arms, watching Damianos closely. 

“Last night. Something happened.” 

“Nothing happened.” 

Laurent narrowed his eyes, swallowing the irrational fear clawing at his throat.  _ Why is he lying? What is he hiding? _ “Something has been bothering you all day. Tell me.” His heart was beating fast. 

Damianos shrugged, posture open. “We left the feast. I helped you to bed. We slept.”

Laurent remembered taking shots of griva, stacking the empty cups on top of one another until they toppled, then a blurred flash of a hallway with the warm bulk of Damianos against his side -  _ helped you to bed _ . It was the truth but clearly not the whole truth. “Is that all?” 

“What do you remember?”

“Mostly being very sick.” Laurent wrinkled his nose. He could have done with forgetting that part, and also forgetting how warm and gentle Damianos’ hands had been, stroking back his hair and wiping his mouth. He wracked his brains for something between the hallway and waking up with his head in the basin. All he could find was a vague sense of unease, or frustration, a feeling like searching for the right word on the tip of one’s tongue. “I didn’t... say anything?”

Damianos’ face did something complicated. “You said you didn’t hate me.”

Laurent felt heat rush into his cheeks and bit his lower lip to keep from swearing. He jerked his gaze away from Damianos, cursing himself silently. 

“Laurent...” Damianos began, with his strong jaw and full lips and horribly earnest eyes. 

“Don’t.” Laurent clenched his jaw. His pulse was throbbing in his temples. 

The Akielon was looking at him like a kicked dog. “I…” 

Laurent huffed out a breath and cut him off. “Find a better use for your mouth,” he said sharply. A jibe, an insult, a clumsy grab for control of the situation.

But instead of laughing it off, or becoming annoyed, or obeying him - any of the things Laurent expected - Damianos looked uncertain. Laurent watched him in consternation, feeling an echoing uncertainty rising beneath his breast bone and hating it. Something else was happening here between them, something he couldn’t grasp, and the feeling of being one step behind had Laurent on edge. The Akielon wasn’t taking the bait. Laurent felt himself tensing; defensive, jittery. “Or if you don't want,” he began, shrugging. 

“I want,” Damianos said quickly, and there was something raw and urgent in his voice that startled Laurent so that he didn’t object when the Akielon stepped forward and tipped Laurent’s chin up. Laurent felt his breath catch as Damianos kissed him with painful tenderness. 

His broad, warm palms cupped Laurent’s face. He could feel Damianos’ sword callouses against his cheekbones. His lips were soft and undemanding, moving tenderly against his. Against his will, Laurent felt a minute shudder pleasure slip down his spine, his body beginning to unwind into the embrace. When had Damianos’ touch become comforting?  _ Around the time you stopped being able to truly hate him _ , he told himself with a spike of bitterness. The least he could do was admit it to himself, after apparently blurting it out drunkenly to the man in question. 

Damianos, Prince-killer, was pressing kissing down Laurent’s throat, nuzzling under his chin. A scrape of stubble made him breathe out sharply. The gentle tease of Damen’s lips made his pulse race and his skin feel over-sensitive, itchy beneath his tight clothing. He reached for the laces at his collar, shivering at the feeling of Damen’s tongue swiping over his fingers. 

Together they peeled Laurent out of his jacket and Laurent felt his breath come short as Damianos knelt before him. His teeth grazed one of Laurent’s sensitive nipples as he dragged his mouth down Laurent’s chest over his shirt, and Laurent breathed in sharply. Damianos was always gentle, but doubly so today. He handled Laurent like fine pottery. It made Laurent feel weak with arousal and unease at once.  _ You won’t break me, _ he wanted to snap, but then Damen closed his lips around the head of Laurent’s cock, and Laurent’s breath shuddered out of him in a gasp. 

Damianos worked him slowly with his mouth until Laurent was panting, thighs trembling under Damen’s hands. Laurent felt Damen easing him backward until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Bending his head, Damianos tugged Laurent’s trousers further down his legs. Laurent felt a gust of warm breath on his balls, and that was all the warning he got before he felt Damianos’ tongue swiping at the sensitive skin behind them. Laurent jolted in shock. He’d never... It was something filthy, illicit, something pets did, not princes. “Are you...” 

Damen stopped abruptly, looking up wide-eyed. “Is this…” 

They stared at one another. The Akielon’s face showed only concern and desire. Laurent didn’t understand him wanting to suck cock either. Some mysteries were better unexamined. He let his head fall back on the pillow and said, “Don’t  _ stop _ .”

Urging Laurent to draw his knees up, Damen pressed his mouth behind Laurent’s balls, and Laurent gasped aloud. Damen’s tongue was wet and teasing, more gentle than any sensation Laurent had experienced there. It sent intense shivers up his spine, made his cock throb and leak against his stomach. Digging his fingers into the soft flesh of his ass, Damen spread him wider, licking steadily. Laurent felt wild, out of control, all the things he hated about arousal, but it was so,  _ so _ good, the familiar edge of fear rolled up the stimulation into something obliterating. When Damianos pressed the tip of his tongue inside, Laurent actually cried out, pressing a hand over his mouth. Damen worked one finger in alongside his tongue, and Laurent arched up, gasping. He rolled his hips urgently up against Damen’s face, face burning in embarrassment but helpless with arousal, hands curled into the sheets. Struggling for control of his body, desperately needing something familiar, something less overwhelming, Laurent managed, “Put your cock in me.” 

Damen lifted his head. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Laurent repeated, hearing his voice, already breathless, rise sharply. They were in bed, Laurent had his knees spread, his hole already wet with spit and open around Damen’s finger. Why would he have to ask? “Of course I’m sure.”

Damianos found the oil and worked him open on his fingers slowly. He sighed at the stretch of his thick fingers, deliberately relaxing. Wriggling, he felt Damen’s fingers slide deeper, his body opening. 

“Enough. Fuck me already.” Damen made a sound of protest, and continued stretching him. Laurent squirmed and swore impatiently. He ached inside, wanting to be filled. This slow, careful attention was making him feel as if he were unraveling at the seams, threads of control slipping. “Come on. Before we both expire of old age.”

Sitting up, Damen edged his knees under Laurent’s thighs. Cock pressed against the slick furl of Laurent’s hole, he hesitated. “Is this okay?”

Laurent propped himself up on one elbow and glared incredulously at him. Did the Akielon want him to beg? He wouldn’t beg to be fucked. Not ever. Not again. “Do you need a written invitation?” he snarled, taking refuge in anger. “Should I get get my formal seal? What part of  _ fuck me _ do you not - ”

He broke off as Damen pressed into him, gasping at the burning stretch. Although Damianos was large and thick, Laurent was bigger now than when he’d learned to take a cock, and it was relatively easy. He breathed through the slight pain as his body adjusted, and then squirmed, using his knee to urge Damen to start fucking him. 

Damianos still wasn’t moving. Laurent pushed himself back on his cock and made a noise of frustration. “Are you planning to do any of the work?” he asked. It made him sound peevish as a spoiled pet, but it was better than sounding unsure. 

Nodding, Damen curled his fingers on Laurent’s hip bones and pressed into him. He fucked Laurent slowly, heedless of Laurent’s attempts to hurry him up. His body was bent over Laurent, enveloping him. His huge body, warm and heavy on top of him, his weight bearing them both into the mattress, the sweet pressure of his cock inside him, his soft curls brushed Laurent’s cheek. Damianos smelled like clean sweat and sex and leather polish. One hand was curled around Laurent’s cock, stroking until Laurent was making small sounds, leaking as each thrust rocked him into Damen’s hand, smearing sticky liquid over his fingers.  His other hand slid up Laurent’s chest to his tug and pinch his nipples and Laurent whined, the sensation shooting straight to his cock. 

Damianos’ face was pressed against his neck, warm breath tickling his chin, lips brushing his skin as he whispered incoherently. “It’s just me, I’ve got you, it’s okay. It’s me, Laurent. Look at me.”

Laurent’s eyes fluttered open and he pushed himself up on his elbows. 

Damen froze, staring at him as if he’d seen a ghost, pulling back so that his cock slid out, uncomfortably abrupt. Laurent winced and snapped, “What the hell is wrong with you?” feeling uncertainty unfurl inside his chest again. 

“Nothing. I just. I want to watch you.” 

There was clearly more to it than that, but before he could retort, Damen pressed back in and Laurent lost his words. Damianos fucked Laurent slow and steady until Laurent was shivering and sweating. He clung to Damen’s shoulders and tried not to think, tried to ride the sweet, narrow line between letting pleasure carrying away his fears and terror at being carried away. 

“Laurent,” Damen groaned and Laurent felt his body respond, shuddering toward him helplessly. 

“Say my name,” Damianos whispered, and Laurent felt his chest convulse. Wasn’t it enough that he had admitted he no longer hated him? Had tried to hate him and could not? He wanted Laurent to say his name in bed, like a lover, the name of the monster who killed Auguste. Did he want to gloat? His victory was more complete than he must have ever imagined - the golden Prince of Vere dead and Auguste’s frigid brother taking his cock like a whore. But that thought was all Laurent’s, not Damen’s and Laurent knew it. Damianos was too honorable, too honest for that. Too good. 

“Please, Laurent, please say it.” His voice broke, and Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, forehead pressed against Damen’s damp shoulder. Something under his ribs ached. Longing for his brother, old, familiar grief. Something new and terrifying in the shape of Damianos. 

“Laurent, please,” Damen begged. 

“Damianos,” Laurent whispered, feeling the word torn out of him - an admission of something true but painful. Damen groaned and shuddered, pressing his face against Laurent’s neck, cock deep inside him. With one hand, he jerked Laurent’s cock fast and steady until Laurent felt his climax rushing up, terrifying, inexorable. As always there was the flash of panic that accompanied orgasm, the fear of being out of control, but Damen was heavy and hot on top of him, grounding him in his body.  _ Damianos _ . He clutched at Damen’s shoulders, clenched around him, arching off the bed and choking off a cry as he spilled in Damen’s fist. Damen made a desperate, broken noise, and stilled inside him, shaking.

They collapsed side by side on the bed, Laurent’s cheek pressed against Damianos’ chest, making a small noise of loss at the sensation of Damen’s softening cock slipping out of him, and the not-quite pleasant tickle of come sliding down his thighs. 

Damianos jumped as if bitten and got up hastily, suddenly over-eager to perform the simple tasks of clean-up that Laurent did by habit. He watched with narrowed eyes as Damen crossed to the washstand. 

“You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” he observed, as Damianos returned, taking the offered cup. 

Damen’s throat moved as he swallowed, and then he said, “What happens if we win?” 

Laurent frowned, thrown. “You’re thinking about my uncle? Now?” 

Damianos flushed and stuttered. “N-no. Only. I was just thinking about afterward. When we beat him.” 

Laurent raised an eyebrow, and took the damp cloth from his hands, rolling onto his side to wipe himself clean. “When I beat him, our deal is fulfilled. You ride for Ios with an army. I return to Arles to clean up my own problems.” The specific problems would depend greatly on how tomorrow played out. 

“And the alliance?” 

“What about it?” Laurent asked, distracted by the slick mess between his legs.  

“We’ll both be kings. We could still be allies.” Damianos’ voice was tentative, soft. “Vere and Akielos haven’t always been enemies.”

“No,” Laurent agreed, “They were one kingdom once.” He gave up on getting much cleaner without a bath, and tossed the damp rag on the floor, stretching out on the bed before looking up. Damianos was staring at him like he’d grown wings, and Laurent realized with a lurch in his gut that he ought to have been paying better attention. 

“It was.” Damianos, licked his lips hesitantly, eyes flickering away from Laurent and back. “We already hold the center. Everything from Marlas to Aquitart.”

Laurent kept his face blank, mind racing. Was this it? The thing that had made Damianos so odd - tender and hesitant by turns? Had he been thinking about this since last night, since Laurent’s admission? It was the kind of fanciful, laughable notion that belonged in the Akielon’s world of  _ honor _ and  _ fair play _ and  _ trust your family _ . Laurent’s heart was beating hard. “What would we do with an empire?” he asked, proud that his voice was steady. 

He knew the answer before Damianos opened his mouth. Damen’s voice was hoarse and low. “Rule it.” 

“Together?” Laurent murmured, unable to stop himself, wishing he could take the word back even as it formed on his tongue. They stared at one another. Laurent couldn’t breathe.

He sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, looking away from Damianos’ dark eyes. “Get up,” he said, roughly. “We’ve got lots to do before tomorrow.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Laurent POV before - what did you think?


End file.
